


Portrait of A Mother in Marble

by EveryoneHasAmnesia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Banter, Hannibal's a bad psychiatrist, M/M, Pre-Slash, Psychobabble, S1 scene that could have been, Will graham's mother - Freeform, cancer mention (not main character), discussion of classic art, flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29763189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveryoneHasAmnesia/pseuds/EveryoneHasAmnesia
Summary: Will can feel Hannibal’s gaze on the side of his face, but he doesn’t look around. He keeps his eyes fixed on the statue, trying to read her expression the way he can read Hannibal’s. Or thinks he can. The statue is good, certainly, skilled, but it doesn’t trigger anything in him. He can’t step inside the sculptor’s head the way he can when the work is made of flesh instead of stone.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18
Collections: Hannibal flashfic 7





	Portrait of A Mother in Marble

“Corradini sculpted this piece, entitled Modesty or Chastity, also known as Veiled Truth, among others, to honor the memory of his patron’s mother, who passed away when the man was less than two years old.” The lecturer sweeps an arm dramatically back, gesturing the statue in question. The small tour group presses forward, and there is a general murmur of appreciation punctuated by one loud and boorish guffaw. 

“I would have punched Corradini’s lights out.” The man behind them has not liked a single exhibit that they’ve been shown, and Will doesn’t know why the exhibit of Italian replicas should be an exception, but he was hoping it would be. Hannibal has been looking forward to this portion of the tour since it was suggested as a means for Will and Hannibal to both be present for the arrest of one of the museum’s greatest donors. 

Hannibal stirs next to him, like he’s going to turn around and say something, so Will leans in. They’re supposed to stay under the radar. No one else is telling the loud mouth to shut up, and they can’t be the ones to do it no matter how badly it needs to be said. 

“He’s got a point,” Will says. Hannibal’s attention snaps to him with barely concealed distaste. “All I’m saying is that if I commissioned a guy to make a memorial statue of my mother, I’d be a little upset he decided to skip the shirt.” 

The statue in question is a replica, created for this specific touring exhibit. The real statue would never leave the chapel in Naples it was made for. The replica, however, carries all the beauty of the original. The robust fullness of the figure, breasts on full view, face and hips barely concealed, and the whole thing solid marble, the stone creating an impression of cloth that is breathtaking to behold. Will isn’t much for art, but he can tell that it’s beautiful. He’s sure that Hannibal, with his interest in things esoteric and high culture, appreciates it even more. 

“The modern, and indeed extremely American, obsession with breasts as purely sexual objects is warping your interpretation of the work. Had it been intended to titillate, there would be a better view of the mons pubis, which is entirely obscured.” 

“So he carved the man’s dead mother’s breasts with such attention to detail because…” 

“They’re beautiful, as a natural part of the body. If you were commemorating someone, wouldn’t you want the sculptor to take the utmost care with every part of them?” 

“I’m not answering that,” Will says. He shifts his weight, looking around the group. On the far side of the hall, he sees an undercover officer in a guard’s uniform slowly move into position. It’s almost time. 

“Why not?” Hannibal follows Will’s gaze, and then turns his attention back to the presenter, who has just raised his voice to be heard among the murmuring of the crowd. 

“No psychiatrist is going to trick me into describing how I want my dead mother’s breasts remembered.” Will looks up at Hannibal. “Nice try, Dr. Freud, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”

Hannibal looks down, a smile tugging the corners of his lips, and Will actually smiles back. The absurdity of the moment steals over them, and for an instant they’re framed like that, two men taking a small group lecture at the Baltimore Museum of Art. 

Then the donor sweeps in, all silks and satins in a pinstripe suit that could rival Hannibal’s, and the undercover officers make their move. All that’s left is to watch is the kicking and screaming as he’s dragged away. Will does watch it, every second, and doesn’t come to himself until even the echoes of the man’s protestations of innocence have been swallowed by the echoes of the crowds. 

The small group has moved on. Will doesn’t know if they disbanded or if they’d simply gone on to the next part of the museum, where a modern art exhibit was the featured display in the little brochure they’d gotten upon arrival. The room is otherwise mostly empty. There are a few milling couples, people unwilling to do even something like going to an art museum alone. There is one man by himself, hands behind his back as he studies the replica of Veiled Truth more closely. 

Will steps up to Hannibal’s side. He doesn’t look up at the statue; from this close, the replica towers over them. He looks at Hannibal’s face, studying the emotions the way he has his whole life. Empathy is not descriptive; he feels what others feel but so often those feelings don’t come with words or explanations attached. Watching Hannibal bask in this beauty isn’t a thing he can name, but it puts him in mind of his favorite stream when the sun just breaks through the clouds, the beam illuminating the sweet spot to set his fly down in, knowing on instinct that that’s where the fish is lurking. It’s a good feeling, knowledgeable, easy, but not toothless. Insight to the fisherman is death to the fish, and beauty to Hannibal is--

Hannibal turns to him, not surprised to see Will so close, and not surprised to see Will watching him so openly. “Is your mother really dead?” he asks, like their conversation was just interrupted a few seconds ago, not a quarter of an hour. 

“Yes,” Will says. 

“My condolences. Mine is as well.” 

“The older you get, the more people can say that,” Will says. He turns to face the statue.

“So you’ve been saying it since you were young.”

“Yeah. Five. So I got longer than what’s his face. Corradini’s patron.” 

“Raimondo di Sangro,” Hannibal supplies. “I had mine until I was ten.”

“Close enough. Neither of us were adults. What happened to her?”

Will can feel Hannibal’s gaze on the side of his face, but he doesn’t look around. He keeps his eyes fixed on the statue, trying to read her expression the way he can read Hannibal’s. Or thinks he can. The statue is good, certainly, skilled, but it doesn’t trigger anything in him. He can’t step inside the sculptor’s head the way he can when the work is made of flesh instead of stone. 

“A lingering illness,” Hannibal says, finally. Will doesn’t press him for more details. “What happened to yours?”

“A quick illness,” Will says. “A fast cancer. It’s really common in that part of Louisiana. She was younger than me when she went.”

“That area of Lousiana has…”

“Processing plants. Chloroprene emissions… It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course. Forgive me.”

“Do you think it was really for his mother? I mean, truly. Not just a way to show off his money or as an excuse to have another statue.”

Hannibal considers. “One hardly needed an excuse to commission a statue. In those days, it was enough to have money… I suppose I couldn’t say. Why do you doubt it?”

“My mother has a plaque somewhere that I’ve never visited,” Will says. “I don’t even know where it is. Which graveyard… And I remember her, sort of. I remember things about her. He never did.”

“It’s easier that way, I think. If a full relationship isn’t possible, it’s nicer to think the best of people than to have some bad mixed in with the incomplete. When you don’t truly know someone, you can imagine them just how you need them to be.” 

Will finally breaks his eye contact with the statue. “That’s true. In fact, the more you know someone, the less likely they are to be what you need.”

“Then the most noble endeavor would be to never truly know someone,” Hannibal says. “That philosophy does match up with your general view on social relationships, with one major improvement.”

“What’s that?” 

“Usually, you insinuate in our conversations that you are unsuitable for social interaction. The defect is yours, somehow. Today, you admit that the defect could be in others.”

Will feels his stomach tighten. He hates to be psychoanalysed. “That sounds like not taking responsibility to me. Blaming someone else.”

“Nonsense. To admit someone else could let you down admits your own vulnerability. Tell me, Will: when you think of your mother, do you feel sadness, or betrayal?”

“I take back what I said before,” Will says. “About not wanting to describe--I changed my mind. I would definitely want her to be wearing a shirt. Some fucking pants, too.”

Will turns on his heel and strides out of the art museum. He expected Hannibal to follow him, but when he reaches the door to the hall he hears no footsteps. He looks back over his shoulder at Hannibal. He turned back to the statue, hands behind his back, looking up at her face. Will doesn’t have to see his face to feel the beauty he’s feeling, undisturbed by Will’s fit of temper, or even their loaded conversation. 

At times Will can feel close to Hannibal, and then he encounters this self-contained peace, and they feel a thousand miles apart again. He puts his head down and leaves the museum without taking in a single other glimpse of art.


End file.
